


and if someone bares his soul to you

by erythea



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Andersen hates Liszt, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Mozart Being A Little Shit, Murasaki is two decades too late, Pining, Sei Shonagon Being A Little Shit By Accident, Shakespeare Being A Little Shit, references to servants after lb2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:53:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26252221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erythea/pseuds/erythea
Summary: “His letters are very raw, you see. If I am the snow that drifts atop Mount Fuji, he is the molten rock within.”Andersen sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “And I am the humble painter bearing witness to it all.”Murasaki tells Andersen about her pen pal.
Relationships: Hans Christian Andersen | Caster/Murasaki Shikibu | Caster
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34





	and if someone bares his soul to you

**Author's Note:**

> It took the reveal of ~~ikemen Andersen~~ ~~Andersen SSR~~ adult Andersen for me to finish this, so feel free to imagine him here even if that doesn't make sense. This is the most pretentious shit I have written in a while and I will not apologize.
> 
> Feb 7, 2021: Edited now that Murasaki's event is out on NA! But Lord Andersen doesn't roll off the tongue as nicely as Mr. Andersen does. Oh well.

Murasaki Shikibu swept into the study, her frilled skirt and bright smile calling everyone’s attention as she held a piece of parchment to her chest. Everyone, of course, applied only to the people in the study, and in the study was a man by his lonesome.

“Oh, Lord Andersen!” she exclaimed. “You’ll never guess what I found on my desk this morning!”

But Hans Christian Andersen did not even so much as glance up. He hoped Murasaki was prudent enough to keep mum about how he'd already read the Shakespearean play in his hands for the eightieth time. He placed the book flat on its cover just in case. He did not, after all, want to seem eager. The world's first novelist had many admirers vying for her attention from across the ages all around the world. To pose a threat to her fan club was a foolish endeavor. He would much rather be a colleague of sorts. Yes, that would be most convenient. For he only sought to ease his loneliness—not that he wished to discuss it!—and among the Servants of Chaldea, Murasaki made the most pleasant company.

“There’s no need to guess when the deduction is only a matter of elimination. In the words of Doyle, it’s elementary: you’ve gotten another reply.”

Andersen knew only three things could lift her spirits to this degree. One, a new addition to her library’s collection. Two, a literary addition to Chaldea’s roster. Since Ritsuka had yet to summon another Servant, and the Bard had so obviously been delaying his next play in favor of odes to widows in Edwardian dress, the answer was obviously three: a letter.

“Still writing to your secret admirer, Shikibu?” he asked, eyes still glued to his book.

“Please do not tease me, Lord Andersen. We are _friends_ ,” she corrected. “Friends who will soon be familiar with each other.”

_ That _ got his attention.

Andersen jolted up, sputtering as he attempted to keep his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“Familiar with— What does that even  _ mean! _ You lift your chin as if you've said something clever, but all you've done is toss me a snake and expect me to charm it! Its hissing and slithering unsettle me now that you have set it loose, but now that you’ve brought me to see it, I'll be damned if you put it back where it came from.”

Murasaki creased her brows and bit her lip before choosing her words carefully: “Does that mean you don’t wish to hear about it?”

“Don’t be absurd, of course I do.” He settled back into his seat. “Perhaps I like entertainment. I am a simple man.” Quickly, he added, “It is you who charms the snakes, not I.”

“I think your way of charming snakes is wonderful in its own right, Lord Andersen.”

“Spare me your flattery and tell your story.”

Murasaki obliged, smoothing her skirt as she sat on a chair next to him. Andersen could tell the woman was dying to share her joy with another soul and he wasn’t about to deny her any longer. Besides, she wasn’t the only one interested in this man of mystery.

“Well,” she began. “as you are aware, I have been writing to him for a while. Almost a year now, in fact.”

“Yes, I remember. You were looking for a pen pal. He was looking for a paramour.”

Murasaki pinched his arm. Andersen yelped accordingly.

“Ahem. In his last letter, you see, he asked me if we could start being on familiar terms.”

“Is there a reason he must ask?” Andersen groused as he nursed the small, aching spot over his sleeve.

“You must understand, Lord Andersen. He is a shy—”

“Oh, you and I are well aware of that.”

“—and sensitive fellow. These things are very difficult for him.”

“Which brings me back to my question: what does he mean by that?  _ Familiar _ terms. Is he suggesting that you give him more benefits? Add him on the Social Media? Forgive me for echoing Sei Shonagon, but he might as well have given you a swipe right!”

Emotion painted Murasaki’s cheeks like that of a porcelain doll.

“Lord Andersen, please! He is not so indecorous that he would press — or in this case, swipe — a button and be done with it. And I’m sure I haven’t made an example of myself to be doubted so!” She bit her lip. “Have I? To be a poor judge of character is most worrying.”

That couldn’t be further from the truth. Among the writers in Chaldea, Murasaki Shikibu was the most sensitive. Shortly after her arrival, she was already attuned to the personalities gathered in the Wandering Sea. She would know better to associate with someone deathly in need of stronger moral principles. Or maybe this was her associating with someone despite herself? Andersen didn’t know. But knowing her for more than a year felt like knowing her for more than a lifetime — naturally, Andersen’s tongue got ahead of itself. How foolish of him. He’d rather throw himself into a fire than let her turn into coal! But the tin soldier must march on.

“Shikubu, I apologize. Whenever you show signs of carelessness, I begin to show signs of rebellion…” He paused. “No, let us not go there. In any case, not all attention must be entertained, you know. Now I always tell you…”

“If they irk you, tell them so!” she said with her best impression of him. It was rather good. “Yes, I know. The autumn rain weathers my heart the way the ocean cuts through stone, but your thoughts make it whole again, and for that I am very grateful.”

Murasaki placed a hand over his own, squeezed it, it took all his power to remain steadfast.

“Believe me when I say he is a man of virtue. Besides, I am not at all that kind! If it was not my wish to speak with him, I would have told him long ago. It would have been a scathing letter, indeed!”

“And I have seen your scathing letters,” he said with a smirk.

Murasaki let go of his hand. “Have you been reading my diary?”

Laughter masked his sigh of relief. “Ha! I can neither confirm nor deny. But in this day and age, what of ours is secret? We are dead authors, naked in the eyes of sinners as we are cast into the desert of the public domain! I suggest that you keep those letters safe and those Livejournals private. We wouldn’t want a repeat of last year — or 2011, for that matter.”

“Oh! I forgot to tell you I moved to Dreamwidth. It looks far less intrusive than the Face Book. With all due respect, Lord Andersen, we’re straying from the topic. Please do listen.”

“I am listening. After a series of unfortunate encounters with Amadeus, the man has taken to playing Liszt for his own amusement. Liszt! He has by no means embellished his work, which I can only assume to be a conscious decision in the name of irony and spite. These walls aren't soundproof, you know, sometimes I hear torturous hours of those nonsensical Hungarian rhapsodies softly banging against my eardrums like an erratically dripping faucet that keeps one awake well into the night, and I would much rather listen to anything else—”

“Lord Andersen,” Murasaki gently interrupted. “I think my friend would like to meet me.”

The room was so quiet he could hear a sonata in B minor.

“As in, to see you in person?”

“Lady Osakabehime calls them Eye-Are-Elle Meet-Ups, yes.”

“What makes you think so?”

“He didn’t say it explicitly, but it has been a year—”

“ _ Almost _ a year.”

“—so I don’t know how else he would like to be familiar with me.”

“You must be making a logical leap somewhere. A misinterpretation of some sort. A reader is welcome to interpret a work however they may wish, but a letter’s sole purpose is to make itself clear.”

“I think I would know a letter’s purpose more than any other.”

“Bah! I certainly can’t argue with that. But that does not always mean you are correct!”

“My! It is not like you to doubt a woman’s intuition…”

“On the contrary, I believe women hear what they like to hear.”

“Perhaps they do. But I assure you I can feel it from his letters — a part of him desperately wants us to meet. His letters are very raw, you see. If I am the snow that drifts atop Mount Fuji, he is the molten rock within.”

Andersen sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “And I am the humble painter bearing witness to it all.”

“I apologize. As a narrator, I know I am unreliable. I don’t blame you for thinking these are mere delusions of mine. But Lord Andersen—”

“Yes?”

“Lord Andersen—”

“I’m listening.”

“How I long to melt under the fire of his soul…”

“Oh, God.”

Murasaki clasped her hands over her heart. “At first, I respected him as a colleague, but soon this respect grew into something more. He bares himself to me with such exquisite poetry. He has so much passion, so much goodness, such a deep understanding of the very nature of humanity itself… Reading each word, it stirs the deeper fibers of my nature! But if I meet him now, I fear I might give in to my madness.” She reached for Andersen’s wrist. “Oh, Lord Andersen! Who is the man making a fool out of me?”

“Breathe, Shikibu! It took you long enough to admit your farce. For God's sake, you don't even know his name!”

Again, Murasaki let go, easing up as she drew her hands back. Deep down, Andersen was afraid this would happen. More accurately, he was aware it was already happening. Murasaki always had a preference for sensitivity and wit, and the longing gazes at her envelopes did not escape him. At first, Andersen paid it no mind. Whoever Murasaki held affection for was no business of his. But the letters kept coming, and neither knew how to stop: Murasaki and her busy wrist, Andersen and his aching chest. Not that it ached more than usual. His tin heart could take it.

“Right. Sorry, it’s not often that I give in to these flights of fancy…” In an attempt to retain whatever dignity she had left, she straightened her back and cleared her throat. “I should like us to forget the past few seconds and never speak of them again. I don’t think I can live otherwise.”

“They are forgotten. Anyway, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and silently prayed that the blasted god of love do what they liked to do best—nothing at all.

“He never said he wanted to meet you. Think. Why has this man been writing to you all this time? If I had to guess, he is either so ashamed of himself that he is afraid of rejection, or so handsome that he hopes his appearance doesn’t cloud your judgement.”

Murasaki opened her mouth.

“Before you ask, the latter almost never happens.”

Lanling Wang was an outlier, but Andersen mustn’t give her ideas.

“You speak of extremes. I find it hard to believe he has anything to be ashamed of. Why, I must admit he is rather charming in my mind.”

“Is there nothing that repulses you?” Andersen asked rhetorically.

“That would be the burning of books and burying of scholars,” Murasaki replied, as if she was proud she had an answer at all.

“Thank God I haven't ingested enough mercury to entertain the thought.”

“My dear friend is no such tyrant. Even if he were a monster, I wouldn’t be averse to meeting the mind that stirs my heart. His bearing or countenance matters not. The beauty of one's soul is what's important."

Andersen snorted. “Don't make me laugh. The moment our Master summons Lord Byron, I bet my father’s shoes you'd run to him in a heartbeat!”

Murasaki blushed. “Um, well… I cannot deny that Lord Byron is a most intriguing historical figure to a modest woman with a fondness for literature such as myself, but I would rather trust a friend over a libertine stranger.”

“Hah! That is wise.”

“Hmm, but… Yes, I can see it. He often sings praises for me, and few for himself. I wish I knew why.” Murasaki sighed as she fiddled with her letter. “There are many things I don’t know about him.”

“I’m still convinced your friend doesn’t want to meet you. Not yet, anyway.”

“What makes you say that? You have yet to read his letter.”

“I don’t need to. Looking at it disgusts me. But it has not disgusted you.” He clicked his tongue. “I underestimated your sapiosexuality,” he muttered, and then at a normal volume: “Perhaps he's waiting for the right moment.”

“I'm not sure, Lord Andersen…" Murasaki’s lip quivered as she fought the trembling in her throat. "My feelings already have begun to overflow. I fear he can sense my longing, and I can sense his distance.”

“Fool! Who would scorn the genius behind the Tale of Genji?”

The outburst startled Murasaki, hurling her sadness to the back of her mind — or so it seemed, for she soon gave Andersen a small, sheepish smile.

“Hehe. You are too kind. I just worry, that’s all. There is an underlying desperation in his words, and yet… Maybe I am thinking about it far too much. I know he is shy.”

Andersen tore away from her gaze and rapped his fingers against the desk.

“He is shy because you are too formal with him. Again, I don't need to read your letters to know. It is a habit of yours. How does he address you?”

She looked at him in confusion. “Ms. Murasaki.”

“Then perhaps he’d like to call you Kaoruko. Perhaps, he'd like to share with you… thoughts he dare not say aloud.”

“I wish he would. He is a very sweet man. Remember when I was blue last week? When Nagiko-san accidentally spoiled  _ The Mortal Instruments _ for me? He said he’d send me something to cheer me up, and just the other day, he sent me the loveliest papercut. It was a beautiful square depicting my favorite fairy tale — the Tale of the Bamboo Cutter. Lovely Princess Kaguya in her junihitoe, gazing at the moon and Mount Fuji from her castle… So much work must have gone into it! He didn’t really have to, you know —  _ The Mortal Instruments _ is a silly series. But I love his paper cutting so much! I’ve framed it and hung it up in my room, across my bed— Lord Andersen? Are you all right?”

Andersen was not all right. He propped his chin up and looked toward the bookshelves. Fidgeted with his hand. Shifted in his seat.

“Would you like more?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean — if he were to make more paper cuttings, would you be amenable to receiving one?”

“Yes, of course! No one at the imperial court has ever given me anything like it. But I would like to be closer to him even more. If he wants what you say he wants…” She shook her head. “No, but it is far too good to be true.”

Andersen cleared his throat. “I write fairy tales, Shikibu. If you wanted a tragedy, you should have confided in William.”

“But he doesn't understand this like you do!”

Murasaki’s outburst shocked even herself. This wasn’t like her, her face inches away as she hovered over Andersen leaning away, both of them wide-eyed and hearts fast-beating.

A moment passed, and she sat down.

“…I’m being silly, aren’t I? Mistaking friendship for affection. You always tell boys and girls to dream, but now you scold me for it. I don’t blame you in the least; it is my fault for believing I’m still a child.”

“I do not  _ scold _ you, I…” Protect you? Too strange. He’d rather have Amadeus drown the words out. “There’s nothing wrong with dreaming. It turns children into pioneers and widows into schoolgirls. I speak in the emotional sense, of course.”

“Ooh, Lord Andersen!” She huffed. “…If only these emotions changed with the seasons, then you wouldn’t have to listen to this prattle. You are the only one I can talk to; I apologize for giving you this burden.”

“Idiot,” he said fondly, though he would argue otherwise. “What is a burden shared between two friends?”

Murasaki smiled, and Andersen felt himself smile too.

“Well? What will you do?”

“I’ll write my reply, of course,” Murasaki said. “We will be closer than ever before. I won’t tell him a thing about the secrets I’ve told you, but—” She lowered her head as she held the letter to her chest. “If he would show his heart to me… Perhaps I will reveal my own.”

Andersen turned his head toward the source of the music. “Not to the tune of this drivel, I hope.”

“Oh! I’ll at least make sure it’s Wagner,” she said, but he could see the stars in her eyes as she listened to Amadeus play, and that made the song perfectly bearable.

  
  


Andersen was not a master of comedies, but he must deliver the punchline.

Novum Chaldea, 2 September 20xx.

Dearest Kaoruko,

Yesterday I received another playful sonnet from Bill, which was less like Christmas and more like the young Ushiwaka bringing her Master a severed head. Then I received another wonderful letter from you, and I discarded the sonnet altogether. I am always looking forward to hearing from you, it is like a ray of sunshine as I remember it in Spain — warm and inviting. Your thoughts fill me now as I sit at my desk, working on my next paper cutting for you. Your last letter is like a dream to me. Kaoruko! Kaoruko! I could write your name all over the parchment, it is a joy I will never tire of. Names are given to those with meaning, and your presence in my life has given it more than enough.

You must be wondering who I am. These days I find myself asking the same question. Who am I to ask you anything? You are accomplished in your own right, and a woman with noble blood coursing through her veins. You can ask anything of me! I know that is not like you. We are both afraid of the consequences of our actions. But you said you would like to know my heart, and I must keep my word. In fact, I have already kept it. It is to my knowledge that you know my heart more than anyone else.

I am not fooling you, Kaoruko. That is not my intention here. If I have deceived you, it is only by my name. If names hold so much meaning, then I would like to give you mine as you have given yours. Maybe you will be angry. I don’t blame you. Suzuka has a term for what I have done, but I’ve already let the word escape me. You are free to burn me, curse me, mock me, or shove me into the dirtiest corner of your bookshelf. Many people have dragged their metaphorical feet across my body while I was alive, and then some. What’s another pair? I only wish to put an end to this comedy of errors — and perhaps, hear your answer.

If you are still thinking about Bill’s sonnet, do not worry; it is in my drawer if you wish to read it. I am ashamed to read it in public, it contains many secrets of mine — secrets you will discover soon enough. Enough about Bill — let us not waste time. I shall meet you at your library tomorrow morning and leave the rest to fate.

Yours gracefully and affectionately,

Your dearest friend

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/O_lieb,_so_lang_du_lieben_kannst).
> 
> Follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/erythean)!


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